


There's fire in my voice.

by DeadDrabble (MisakillDatMonkey)



Series: Until your lips taste like mine. [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Background Sunaosa, Canon Universe, Car Sex, Character Study, Communication, Feelings Realization, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Oral Fixation, POV Sakusa Kiyoomi, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Olympics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Sloppy Makeouts, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisakillDatMonkey/pseuds/DeadDrabble
Summary: Kiyoomi has acknowledged he was doomed for some time now. He went down quietly with it — more because he was never the kind to scream in his pillow than because he could make his peace with having an obvious crush on someone like Miya Atsumu.Kiyoomi resorted to try and bury it deeper.He could have worked with that. For as blunt and sharp as he’s always been, Kiyoomi is a master at hiding his feelings and emotions. And he is a grown-up, a professional. Miya would never know about it.  No one would, and with time, Kiyoomi himself might forget about that flimsy silly little crush.Maybe Kiyoomi is too good at fooling others and has fooled himself the most, though.(Sequel toBite me, then)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Until your lips taste like mine. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995118
Comments: 33
Kudos: 473
Collections: ♧SakuAtsu Fics♧





	There's fire in my voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the sequel to [Bite me, then](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216931) and part 2 out of at least 3 of this series. 
> 
> Song for this one-shot is [Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wMBNpVQ0k_k).

_Click, click, click…_

Kiyoomi’s eyes shift from the door to the corner around the lockers and back. Inunaki and Tomas waltz past him, discarding their overcoat on the bench for one, kicking a locker door shut for the other. Hinata throws a magazine at Bokuto over Kiyoomi’s head. Perfect toss, Kiyoomi doesn’t even flinch, only—

_Click, click, click, click…_

His right leg jolts faster by the minute. It’s been bouncing since Kiyoomi dropped on the bench in the middle of the alley, at a quicker and quicker pace since he locked eyes on the door. He’s been munching on the puller of his zipper for just as long. 

_Click, click, click, click, click…_

Bokuto gets too close to Kiyoomi’s back when he throws the magazine back to their number twenty-one. He’s done reading, they’re all done gearing up and ready to head out, straight to the court. He could be quick about it, considering they need to move to practice, but Bokuto stays there, bringing his sneaker up the bench to tie his laces. Kiyoomi bends over a little to get away from his lording presence, jaw clenching around the zipper and...

_Clack!_

“Aw, _shit_!” Kiyoomi curses low, spitting the metallic piece back.

“Omi-san, are you okay?” Hinata asks, a concerned frown taking place instead of his previous beaming smile as he jogs over to lean into his personal space.

“Spacing out, Sakusa-kun?” Bokuto joins, bending over his shoulders.

Kiyoomi flinches away from both of them, twisting out of the duo’s range like a seasoned stray cat. In these cases, he can be as liquid as a feline if need be. Today, he _needs_ it more than any other day.

He doesn’t want anyone near him, no one breathing down his nape, not a soul speaking in his face, especially so loudly. He’s still overwhelmed from yesterday. It’s been a little over twelve hours. He showered, he slept, Kiyoomi met with other people, and he’s still feeling oversensitive, backing away from the slightest touch, even more than the usual.

Shying away from any touch that isn’t the one Kiyoomi feels lingering on his skin anytime he closes his eyes. 

Kiyoomi extracts himself from the sudden attention, mumbling a quiet “I’m fine” exactly when the door of the locker opens. He stiffens all over again, eyes darting toward the newcomer immediately.

Miya is standing in the doorway as a mild uproar erupts from around Kiyoomi. MSBY Black Jackals setter Miya Atsumu is late. Not fashionably late. _Really_ late. Everyone has noticed, and everyone has been mentioning it as they were changing. No one saw him leave the dorms on their way out this morning, and Kiyoomi realizes why the moment Miya steps inside.

He can’t help it, thought it over anyway and he can’t afford not to act normal today… he searches for some kind of eye contact. He doesn’t get one right away, as Miya’s attention is solely directed toward their captain while he starts apologizing profusely for being so late.

Kiyoomi has all the time in the world to notice then: the dark shadows circling under his eyes, the ashen complexion and the yawn that rips his mouth before Meian is even done telling him to just _hurry up, it’s not a big deal._

Miya hasn’t slept. Or barely.

Their eyes finally meet and Kiyoomi can be grateful for not having his zipper between his teeth anymore because he would have snapped the puller free from how hard he clenches his teeth. 

A little over twelve hours, and Kiyoomi thought he’d finally be over it but Miya yawns again, closing his eyes, and the very short span of time between the moment he opens his mouth wide and the moment he brings a hand up to cover it, Kiyoomi feels like his body has been lit on fire.

Sakusa is on his feet in a flash, the moment for Miya to step in and drop his bag at the far end of the bench, then he’s storming past Miya and out of the lockers before he knows it.

It’s bad. Kiyoomi is already regretting it. He promised himself not to act weird, that shoving Miya into a wall was as out of control as he’d get, apart from the whole part where he let him get on his knees and blow him.

“Shit,” Kiyoomi curses again under his breath.

This time there’s no one to hear him, nor his deafening heartbeat. He’s standing alone in the corridor, trying to regain some composure, nape on fire, palms sweaty. It makes him scrunch his nose in disgust when he realizes and the young man heads for the bathrooms.

The cold water Kiyoomi splashes on his face kind of helps, so does the grounding routine of washing his hands for a few long minutes.

He thought he was doing fine. He certainly was, last night, basking in the afterglow of a mindblowing orgasm, the weight of his pent-up frustration lifted off his shoulders… 

It had been such a good feeling, so much that Kiyoomi hadn’t actually realized and freaked out properly until he had been sitting at the back of the bus, on his way to meet his cousin downtown.

Looking at his reflection in the narrow mirror running on the wall in front of him, Kiyoomi makes the same mind blowing observation than he made back then, and again while spacing out with Motoya’s sister, and again while showering and even quite obviously when he was lying in the dark of his bedroom, eyes wide in shock: he’s had sex with Miya Atsumu in the storage room.

Miya sucked him off in a shady dark corner of the gymnasium they practice in daily. The setter of his team. His professional team, of professional volleyball players whose job is to be athletes, as a living, for money, seriously, in their work environment. That’s enough to make Kiyoomi’s panic rise again, if only a little. But then his mind drifts again as the rest of the team passes by the corridor leading to the bathroom, loud as ever. His team. His teammates, partners… in a sense, his co-workers.

Miya is his co-worker, and yes, they’ve become more than acquaintances over the six last months — actually if there is one person he is really close with on the team outside of the court, Miya qualifies the most — but they are...

Kiyoomi refrains from cursing aloud once _again,_ feeling pitiful. 

He’s been interested in Miya in that way for too long to remember, for years, if he is honestly looking into it. Kiyoomi has spent all these years burying that interest effortlessly, because he had so many other things to think about: volleyball, university, making his own experiences while growing into the young adult he is now, in Tokyo, his family… He hasn’t crossed Miya’s path many times over the years between their first shared training camp when he was sixteen and the moment he joined the Black Jackals, past his 22nd birthday.

Even then, it hadn’t been too difficult not to dwell on the fact that Miya wasn’t just a cute guy his age with a troublesome personality but a stupidly hot grown-ass man who’d had years to still be troublesome but also wiser and more thoughtful of the persons around him.

Damn, the guy is a total dumbass, but he’s also a genius at what he does, and someone so caring that Kiyoomi is still genuinely taken aback everytime Miya has a considerate (and he has had _many_ over months) gesture toward him when he can also be such a self-centered prick…

By the time Kiyoomi realized he couldn’t deny anymore being attracted to Miya, he also had to deal with a crushing realization: he was totally smitten with him. 

Kiyoomi had spent weeks trying to move out from his dorms, straight to the fabulous lands of denial, and he’d been dragged back there brutally every time he’d crossed Miya’s path. On his way out to the grocery store, in the lockers, as he’d come back from his morning run, many fleeting moments where Miya had as much time to be an idiot than he had to give him a warm wave of the hand or give Kiyoomi an extra cup of coffee he’d brought back from _his_ run…

“Black as your soul, Omi-kun,” he’d say every time with a crooked smirk.

And you’d think Kiyoomi would hate hearing the same taunt over and over, but the thing is he came to miss the mornings Miya didn’t do this shit.

Kiyoomi has acknowledged he was doomed for some time now. He went down quietly with it — more because he was never the kind to scream in his pillow than because he could make his peace with having an obvious crush on someone like Miya Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi resorted to try and bury it deeper. 

He could have worked with that. For as blunt and sharp as he’s always been, Kiyoomi is a master at hiding his feelings and emotions. And he is a grown-up, a professional. Miya would never know about it. No one would, and with time, Kiyoomi himself might forget about that flimsy silly little crush.

Maybe Kiyoomi is too good at fooling others and has fooled himself the most, though.

Miya hasn’t helped at all. But trust that somber idiot to be desperately useless when Kiyoomi needs it the most — and that’s not on the court.

A sharp stab in the plump flesh behind his bottom lip, the discontinuous sound of the tap sputtering water in the sink, a door slamming loudly in the distance... Kiyoomi realizes he’s been gnawing on the piece of metal absentmindedly again. That zipper is going to ruin his perfectly aligned teeth. Or so said Kiyoomi’s dentist for the hundredth time after his last bi-monthly check-up. 

Not that he cares, the wing spiker doesn’t have many ways to channel his anxiety physically so he doesn’t implode. One is to make volleyballs rain across the court like missiles, another is running daily like a madman no matter the weather outside, and another is to file his canines with anything he can grind his teeth on.

It’s always been his thing. _His_ thing, not that he put a thought into it. By the time Kiyoomi knew it was _a thing_ at all, he was stuck with the gnawing tic. Maybe that’s why he pays more attention to others when they do it, or maybe he’s just weird. Kiyoomi frankly doesn’t care.

All he knows is that he was good at fooling everyone, including himself, until he realized it was _also_ Miya’s thing.

Kiyoomi closes his eyes shut, trying not to remember the first time he saw Miya sticking his tongue out in the lockers while taking an obnoxious selfie with Hinata. He remembers it vividly, opens his eyes and elbows the door open to slip in the corridor.

It’s silent, but not for long. As he walks toward the main court, Kiyoomi tries not to think about the first time Miya popped a stupid lollipop out of his mouth. His clear memory is disturbed by the high-pitched but muffled sound of a few balls bouncing on the floor. It echoes long after the last was dropped on the court.

He can’t focus on these things. He has no idea what they are supposed to do from now on, but Kiyoomi can’t afford not being himself around Miya. Not even when they’re alone. He’s twenty-three, he’s never been thrown-off in his life by anything or anyone — not openly, at least, and he doesn’t intend this to change.

He’s not Miya, he doesn’t deem himself _too cool for school._ He actually went there and got a complete and thorough education but Kiyoomi is nothing like a lame idiot who can’t behave himself because he had a consensual sexual intercourse with another man.

He knows he’s gay already. Kiyoomi figured it out a few years back. 

He knows he’s into Miya already. Kiyoomi figured it out a few weeks back.

He knows Miya is enough into him to suck his dick. Kiyoomi figured it out yesterday and he won’t fuck things up because he desperately dreams of it happening again. That and more.

That and less… when he thinks about it, _just_ kissing Miya wasn’t something he can check as _just_ _something_ any longer on his list. It wasn’t enough, it was so thrilling, so arousing that Kiyoomi craves it again, like he’s rarely craved something in his life.

He isn’t the kind to experience unquenchable thirsts. Kiyoomi either works hard enough to give himself what he wants, or he finds the resolve and the discipline not to experience such needs.

Kiyoomi has no idea how to rationalize his endless cravings when it comes to Miya. He’s tried to discipline himself, to tame it, to dull it… He’s tried everything and lost his composure a few times after observing Miya’s stupid tongue or his stupid smile, his mouth…

But Kiyoomi had big hopes after tasting it that the thirst would be subdued. He was wrong and now he’ll have to work twice harder until he figures out what to do with Miya himself. If they work anything out—

“Omi-kun!”

_Of course._

Kiyoomi stops in his tracks, a few feet away from the double doors leading to the court. They’re late. 

“Omi-kun, wait!” 

Kiyoomi turns around anyway. Acting normal shouldn’t be a problem, it doesn’t seem to be one to Miya, and Kiyoomi would rather suffer a thousand serve receives than conceding defeat there.

He doesn’t have much time to spare to the thought, though, because a sports bottle is flying toward his face and Kiyoomi only catches it thanks to months of synched practice with Miya and years of perfecting his reflexes. It stops a hair’s breadth away from his face, so close that the back of his wrist brushes against his nose. 

“Close call.” Miya’s provocation clashes with Kiyoomi’s “Sloppy toss.”

Miya sounds slightly more sheepish than he usually would, Kiyoomi slightly colder as he snaps.

Silence settles over them, and unlike the usual, it’s not the comfortable silence Kiyoomi surprisingly found Miya was able to provide him when he needed it the most.

“Sorry.” 

They speak over the other once more, but this time, they end up grinning. Barely in Kiyoomi’s case, more openly when it comes to Miya, and _that_ feels natural, this time. Kiyoomi steals a glance. From up close it’s even more obvious that he barely slept and Kiyoomi can’t help it, he can’t help the way he wonders where he spent the night.

Not that he thinks Miya would be the kind of fool to hook-up with someone at his team’s expense the next day. No, instead he worries. Because Miya looks febrile from sleep deprivation way more than Kiyoomi is febrile from standing so close to him.

“Forgot that in the changin’ room,” Miya explains as he catches up to him, bringing a hand to rest on the handlebar running along the door panel. 

He doesn’t press it open, though.

Kiyoomi’s eyes shift to his hand, both because he’s surprised by it and because it’s easier than crossing his teammate’s gaze.

“You in a hurry, Omi-kun?”

“Shouldn’t you be, Miya? Who do you think you are, coming in so late? The darling setter of the nation? You know that’s Kageyama, right? And I don’t think he’s—”

“Wow, wow, wow!” Miya stops him, holding his other hand up. “ _Wow_ , Omi! Cut me some slack. I’m so- _woaaah_!”

Kiyoomi will never find out if Miya was about to say that he is so-rry or he’s so-stupid, because the doors open from the inside and Miya simply falls over, dragged along with the momentum. Before Kiyoomi can act on the reflexes he’s so proud of, his teammate crashes on the ground at Hinata’s feet.

The bright beaming smile on the redhead’s face morphs into a confused expression before Hinata settles on being horrified. It all happens faster than Kiyoomi is to bend over to try and grab Miya by the neck, which he fails to accomplish before Miya faceplants.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata shrieks, jumping to the rescue as Miya pushes himself on all four with a groan. 

Kiyoomi reaches out too, not even thinking about the fact that touching Miya is a total ordeal these days. His hand locks on his shoulder, the muscles tensing up under his touch immediately.

Other teammates are already flooding toward them, dropping the preparations they’re focused on.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Damn I already said I’m sorry for being late. Why is everyone tryna kill me before I can make amends,” Miya mumbles, accepting Hinata’s hand to get back on his feet.

“I’m so sorry, Atsumu-san!” Hinata immediately bends over repeatedly, profusely.

Kiyoomi might get dizzy from the repetitive movement and steadies himself by clenching on Miya’s shoulder harder.

Miya’s shoulder. Miya who shifts to give him a look that Kiyoomi doesn’t even take the time to analyze, releasing his grip immediately.

They stare at each other, dumbstruck. Kiyoomi hates it.

“So sorry, I didn’t know you’d—” Hinata’s voice gets louder.

“Come on, guys! What’s with the commotion?” Meian’s voice reaches out too.

It helps dissipate any awkwardness and Miya is back at smiling brightly, turning away from Kiyoomi to ruffle Hinata’s hair.

“Get going, now,” Meian is ordering, jogging away.

Kiyoomi is shocked to find out he’s standing alone near the double doors and curses himself, mentally this time. Miya is the one who looks like shit from not having slept, yet he’s been the one spacing out since he opened his eyes this morning.

“Get a grip,” Kiyoomi admonishes himself in a whisper, worrying at his lips.

Miya is already helping hoisting the net, tongue stuck between his lips in concentration. Kiyoomi’s hands clench around his bottle.

A solid grip, that’s all he needs.

“Sorry, it was low,” Miya apologizes painfully for the _nth_ time this afternoon. 

It’s past four, and they’re about to pack up. It’s Friday so they wrap earlier than the other days. The traditional pretense that it’s like any other Friday for any young man their age and that they can go out and get drunk if they want to. They barely ever go out on Friday nights because they’re running their weekly 20 kilometers lap at eight o’clock sharp the next day, no matter if they’re hungover or not. Some of them have tried, still do from time to time, it’s never a success.

Kiyoomi doesn’t plan to go out tonight, anyway. To be entirely accurate, Kiyoomi doesn’t have a plan, period.

He knows what he told Miya before leaving that filthy storage room yesterday, and what it implied, and although he’s sure to stand his grounds… Well, it’s difficult not to imagine bringing it up being awkward.

They’ve been out for dinner together a few times on Friday evenings before, or went to watch a movie at the theater and hanging out like two friends would. They mostly don’t spend it together, though, and it never became a solid tradition. 

Kiyoomi thought he could test the waters during lunch but Miya got to talk to Meian and their coach Foster first, then isolated himself to make a call.

A long call. 

He seemed all the more exhausted when he came back from it to wolf down a meal that was clearly bought straight from a konbini. As if Kiyoomi wasn’t concerned enough, he didn’t really have time to come up with a plan, because Miya spent the rest of the afternoon tossing less and less accurately as exhaustion caught up to him.

There was a time when Kiyoomi thought he should severely reflect on a strategy, though, during the afternoon break. When Miya downed two energy drinks in one go, and Kiyoomi got mesmerized by the rivulet of liquid running down his chin and throat.

The moment the blood in his face rushed toward his groin and Kiyoomi had to take a longer bathroom break to drown himself under the stream of cold water at the sink. He wasn’t in condition to form a coherent plan back then, least one concerning the source of his trouble. But he should have.

It’s past four now, and Miya seems to have reached his limits, although he tried his best all day and pushed himself without complaining one second. Neither Meian or Foster brought it up either, so Kiyoomi is pretty much convinced no matter what it is, the setter has a solid excuse to be in such bad shape but…

Meian calls it a day, ordering them to stretch before cleaning the court which prompts Miya to drop on the floor, sagging with obvious relief. Kiyoomi can’t help but worry furthermore.

He walks over to him, ignoring Barnes when he asks the wing spiker to throw him the ball laying at his feet. He only stops when the tips of his shoes are an inch away from Miya’s thighs.

He's laying on the ground on his back, eyes closed and hidden in the crook of his elbow, breathing hard and fast despite having dropped there for a solid minute now.

Kiyoomi doesn’t speak immediately, pretty sure Miya felt his presence anyway, but he doesn’t move either from his towering stance, not sure how he should go about it.

“I’m fine, Omi-kun, don’t worry,” Miya’s voice breaks a little as he uncovers his face and props himself on his elbows not without struggling a little.

“Good to hear,” Kiyoomi answers, relieved he didn't have to start the conversation. “Your sets weren’t, though, so I thought I’d ask.”

“Kicking a man down, I see,” Miya whines, craning his neck to crack it.

Kiyoomi scrunches his face at the first creaking sound but still drops next to him.

“There. I’m down too. So what’s up with these?” Kiyoomi asks, moving his legs into a butterfly position to stretch his abductors while he points at his teammate’s face.

“These what?” Miya asks, confused.

“The giant bags under your eyes, idiot. Are you going to pretend you’re not about to collapse or are you just stupider than usual?” 

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue, hands locked over his sneakers.

Miya stares for a few seconds, looking almost gloomy, then a tired but genuine smile curls his lips and Kiyoomi’s feels his treacherous heart miss a beat. Only a little one, but it’s there, and heat spreads across his face immediately.

“I’d like to compliment you on your deduction skills but I guess even Sherlock and Watson over there figured me out, yeah? Don’t flatter yourself,” Miya says and he surprisingly gets on his feet.

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up to follow him, puzzled, but then Miya is circling him and dropping anew, behind his back this time.

Kiyoomi’s face isn’t _heating_ up anymore, his whole body catches on fire.

“Bend,” Miya breathes behind him, and two hands find their way on his knees.

It’s nothing they haven’t done before. In fact, Kiyoomi almost always stretches with Miya after practice. 

The only thing that changed between the last time they’ve been this close physically and now is that Kiyoomi knows what Atsumu’s lips taste like and what they feel like around—

“You don’t need to—” he starts, face flushed and mortified but ô so grateful he can at least hide, folded in half.

“Don’t pull a Miya on me, you know better,” Miya whispers. “Plus _you_ need it,” he then reminds his spiker, voice even again so anyone walking past them could hear.

“It doesn’t taste as good when you’re the one calling yourself an idiot,” Kiyoomi protests but he’s grateful for the way Miya isn’t making it awkward. 

And the way he’s looking out for him.

Damn, he’s so doomed. 

Of course, Kiyoomi needs a partner when he stretches. There are downsides to having a pliable body that can bend and fold so freakishly. It’s easy to get hurt. Miya might have been the first one to be loud and stupid about Kiyoomi’s wrists when he showed up his skills at practice but he was also there to rush at the end to offer some help if Kiyoomi needed it.

“Who said I was calling myself an idiot?” Miya pretends to protest, suddenly applying full body pressure on Kiyoomi’s back.

“You mean to tell me you used your own name to compliment me just now?” 

“Nah, I didn’t, so go off I guess!” Miya acknowledges with a scowl in his voice. “Oi, back straight,” he commands. 

Kiyoomi obeys, closing his eyes and reveling in the touch. They’re so close. And it seems so easy, yet it’s so overwhelming, Kiyoomi can’t—

“ _Breathe_.”

The word melts behind Kiyoomi’s ear, a caress against the shell, scorching on his skin.

He can’t help or suppress it, his whole spine shakes with a body wrecking shudder. The weight on his back immediately disappears and Kiyoomi finds himself mourning that loss before his mind starts reeling.

He’s the one, of all people, who’s going to make it awkward, isn’t he? He’s going to ruin it. He’s—

“Do you want to stretch with someone else?” Miya asks from up close — he’s still behind him, within reach. “I can call Shouyo, I know you—”

“Don’t,” Kiyoomi almost snaps in a hurry. “I don’t need him, I n—You can, it’s fine, just—”

“Okay, okay! I’ve got ya. Got it!” Miya rushes just like him, still pushing up to get on his feet. “On your back.”

Kiyoomi swallows down the lump in his throat. Miya doesn’t sound as certain as he usually is, yet the command sparks the beginning of another shiver and Kiyoomi drops on his back more abruptly than necessary to kill it.

He needs to stop that, to bring back the comfortable and weird unexpected osmosis they share. And Kiyoomi knows no better way than being brutal.

“Congratulations, I almost forgot you look like shit with your shenanigans. Care to explain the bags now?” 

There’s the shadow of a wicked smile on Miya’s lips before Kiyoomi can really place it, and then he's worrying at them instead, seemingly lost in thoughts. 

Kiyoomi brings a leg up for Miya to grasp, more to catch his attention than to proceed with the routine. It works.

“If you don’t speak up, I’ll harass you until you tell me,” Kiyoomi warns, closing his eyes as gentle and warm hands curl around his knee and calf.

How can this loud idiot who gesticulates around so wildly be so gentle… and how can Kiyoomi survive it, exactly?

“No way, Omi-kun. You’d never harass anyone, that’s not your style.”

Miya pushes back, bending his leg slowly.

“You’re right. You’d never see it coming if I was onto your ass, but it—” Kiyoomi cuts himself, embarrassed by his own choice of words, but the second he decides it’s stupid and he should go on, Miya finishes the sentence for him:

“Would hurt because you’re a sneaky lil’ bastard. I know,” he grins through it. “And ‘Samu got sick.” 

Kiyoomi startles at that, eyes snapping open and prompting Miya to freeze.

“Sick? How?” 

“Nothing too bad, I think,” Miya answers, applying pressure on his leg again. 

He’s bending low over Kiyoomi as the other man frowns.

“You think?”

“Yeah, yeah I mean… The idiot overworked himself with the upcomin’ opening in Tokyo. He got sick and called me last night, after—”

This time Miya is the one who interrupts himself mid-sentence and Kiyoomi is glad he’s not alone to be hit by that shameful wave of heat. He might be blushing, but so is Miya. But at least, he has the grace to clear his throat and keep going with their business.

And to hell if Kiyoomi is combusting there. At least it doesn’t raise suspicion to their teammates.

Miya is clearly avoiding his gaze now but he goes through with the movement, deciding it’s best not to talk until he’s released Kiyoomi’s leg and he gets back up.

When he’s done, Kiyoomi lets his leg fall to the ground, hesitating a few seconds before raising the other. Miya was the one who started the conversation to spare him the trouble, Kiyoomi can at least clear the suffocating atmosphere this time.

“Did you go to him?”

“‘Course I did,” Miya blurts out, visibly relieved he can rush again into the conversation without dying of embarrassment.

Kiyoomi has to remind himself they’re two adults. Two giant fuck-ups, more like it. Still adults.

“I took the train because he said he was just a little off and it’d be nice of me to help closin’ the restaurant but I should have known. He’d never have asked for help so suddenly if— Fuckin’ idiot I swear. Anyway. I found ‘im red faced and barely able to stand. Turns out he was running the fever of the century. I rushed ‘im to the ER, was kind enough not to kick his ass, and I kept watch all night.”

“That bad?” Kiyoomi can’t help but ask, concern obvious in his voice.

“That—Yeah. Yeah, he really wasn’t doing great. I came back from Kobe with the first train but I’m heading back there to pick ‘im up when we’re done. Doc said it would be fine for me to take that ass home tonight over the phone.”

Kiyoomi notices the way Miya’s shoulders are set, tense and stiff, although he seemed comparably relaxed enough a few minutes ago, even as they were forced to breathe the same air. He’s not just concerned… He’s afraid for his brother.

His knee hits his chest and Kiyoomi pushes back more forcefully and faster than intended. Miya lets go of him and Kiyoomi ignores the vertigo when he scrambles to his feet too fast.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. You did good, he’s going to be just fine,” he offers, tilting his head so he can find the gaze that’s avoiding him. “Everything will be fine.”

Miya eventually looks up, averting his eyes as soon as they catch Kiyoomi’s. 

“I know, I know. He’s just dumber than I thought. Can’t help it, right?” 

His chuckle is nervous, a little forced. Kiyoomi can tell because he’s observed Miya up close over the last months. He can tell because he's biting his lips again, worrying at them while he looks anywhere but in front of his stupid handsome face.

“You’re right. You can’t fight your genes. Lie down, now.”

Kiyoomi’s command isn’t harsh, he’s smiling and finds out he can’t help it even more when Miya flashes him an offended glare.

“Fuck off, Omi,” he growls but drops on the floor heavily nonetheless.

Kiyoomi kneels by him, ready to drape himself over his teammate’s back, bracing himself and—

“Guys, I have to head out first, but clean the mess, alright? And whoever finishes it doesn’t forget to lock the storage room. Found it open this morning! If it happens again you’re running an extra mile tomorrow, got it?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t really register the threat, eyes going wide, throat going dry.

He _hears_ Miya’s throat clicking when he swallows down, stiffening against his chest.

“Sorry Meian-san! My bad! I was heading somewhere and then—”

“We forgot!” Hinata supplies, helping Bokuto when the latter offers an apology.

Kiyoomi doesn’t hear their captain’s scolding, he only notices Miya’s fast and trembling breathing, as he tries to gulp down a mouthful of air. He could have missed it if he wasn’t already half-pressed against Miya's back, because his own blood is rushing to his ear, covering everything with a very uncomfortable and straining white noise.

“Bend,” he croaks at his teammate’s attention, eager to move or do anything that could help him not reeling like a total freak.

Miya folds in half fast enough to hurt himself, because Kiyoomi was right, it’s in the genes or something and he whines when his nose bumps his thighs.

“Careful, moron,” Kiyoomi snaps, clicking his tongue, but he’s more annoyed at his crazy stuttering heartbeat than he is at Miya.

 _Get a grip,_ he orders himself, chewing on his tongue to try and dissipate the dry feeling that lingers in his mouth. He’s stupid, they both are. It has nothing to do with the genes, and Kiyoomi only deserves to get stuck with someone equally not bright.

“ _You_ be careful,” Miya’s voice suddenly pierces through the fog that’s gnawing at Kiyoomi's brain and he realizes he’s pressing too hard on his teammate's back.

He peels himself off him instantly, dropping an apology that sounds like a curse and Kiyoomi has rarely wished he could slap himself so badly.

“Are you ok?” Miya asks, unfolding and craning his neck to look back.

He doesn’t sound mad, he sounds concerned, and it’s even worse. To Kiyoomi’s ego, at least. Once he’s able to gather his thoughts, he has to admit it’s for the best.

Kiyoomi knows he sounds grumpy when he speaks again, but at least he’s calmed down enough.

“Of course I am.”

“Then stop sulking and help me with the middle split. I feel no better than a walkin’ corpse, could use some help.”

Kiyoomi does. He stops sulking the best he can, resisting the urge to cringe when he feels the telltale warmth creeping up his nose and cheeks… There’s more pressing matters at hand anyway. Miya seems at the end of his rope, whether he insists on joking about it or not.

“You said you were going back to Kobe? On which legs exactly?” he asks not even a minute later, when Miya flinches and winces from the pain Kiyoomi knows is flaring up his thighs.

“Shut up, smartass,” Miya snaps lamely, holding back a pitiful groan as he gets closer to the ground.

Kiyoomi notices the tremor in his teammate’s legs as he presses down, unable to look away. His brows furrow.

“I’m serious,” he hears himself say low and grave.

Miya cranes his neck again to look back, gives up when it strains too much on his body, then forces out a weak: “I’ll just catch a train, nothing to fuss about.”

“I—”

The plan forms itself and unfolds before Kiyoomi’s eyes naturally, without needing to fry his brain one second over it.

“I’ll drive you there.”

“What?” Miya startles and squirms away from under Kiyoomi’s weight to close his legs painfully.

“Let me drive you there.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t be more adamant. He’s getting up, reaching for his bottle in the process to have something to fidget with.

“Why? W—wait, no, don’t worry. I don’t want to—I’m fine! Don’t bother with that sh—”

“My car is parked at the dorms. I’m taking a shower and heading back there. Pick yourself up, take one too and wait for me here,” Kiyoomi cuts short any further protest, turning on his heel.

He ignores the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Omi, I swear I don’t need—”

“ _I swear_ you need to shut up. Keep it up and I’m folding you into a shitty origami and loading you in the trunk.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t really hear whatever Miya comes up with to come back at him, he grabs one of the carts filled with the balls they used during practice and heads out of there before losing his bravado.

It’s dark outside. Night is settling in as the clock gets closer to six. Kiyoomi is nervous and he can’t help it. He feels like it is stupid, because they seem to be able to hold a conversation without shame eating them alive and if he keeps working on himself, he might not lose it everytime he’s reminded how hot Miya is and how much he wants his mouth to be on his.

But more than stupid, it’s frustrating and a little scary. Kiyoomi has no idea what Miya wants from him, past getting on his knees and sucking the life out of him once, and he’s not clear himself on what _he_ wants past the need to act on his attraction.

That might be a terrible mistake, Kiyoomi just needs discipline.

_Tap, tap._

Miya’s knuckles are rattling against the roof of his car as he appears through the window.

Kiyoomi texted him a little earlier, telling him he was waiting in the parking lot, and he’s been a silent mess since then.

Seems like his chance to fry his brain is over, so he unlocks the door.

“Thanks,” Miya chirps in as he swings the door open and gets inside in one go.

“No prob—”

“No, I mean thanks for the door but...” Miya interrupts him, shutting it behind him, then he shifts in the seat to look at his driver. “ _Thank you_ for doing this. Didn’t have to.”

Kiyoomi stares, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. 

The faint scent of Miya’s shower gel slowly invades the interior of the vehicle. Kiyoomi stares back at him, notices he looks a little refreshed despite the circles under his golden eyes that are now as dark as old bruises. The shorter hair at his nape is still damp, slightly curling. Kiyoomi feels his fingers prickling. The ghost of a memory lingers where he touched the same hair, slightly damp with sweat back then. Shit, he’s staring too hard.

“I told you, it’s fine. Which hospital is he staying in?”

“Downtown. Closer to his restaurant.”

Miya’s hands fiddle with the duffle bag in his lap, which he opens the moment Kiyoomi turns the engine on. He can’t help but spare a glance sideways, baffled when he sees Miya pull another can of energy drink. Granted Kiyoomi hasn’t missed any other one, that’s still the third one today.

Before he knows it, and right as Miya cracks the lid open, Kiyoomi is stretching his arm out, throwing his hand between the hanging can and Miya’s open mouth.

“You shouldn’t,” he blurts out fast, retracting his hand at the speed of light.

“Sorry, what?” 

Miya looks frankly dumb like this, mouth hanging open, blinking slowly. Yet he’s handsome. He’s so exhausted it gets to Kiyoomi who can’t help but empathize. Miya brings the can to eye level slowly.

“Why? You poisoned it?”

“Wh—no? But that shit definitely will poison you. You barely ate today, you haven’t slept, you practiced, you just can’t—” Kiyoomi shuts his mouth, suffering whiplash from how fast he turns away from Miya.

Damn, he’s patronizing him. The guy he has a massive crush on, the very guy who got on his knees for him, and the guy to whom he’d want to give back a lot more. And here he is rambling like a fussing lame parent. That’s so unsexy, even for him!

“Oh. I didn’t notice it would… like—yeah, you’re right. Was wondering why I could see electricity suddenly. Might be that,” Miya chuckles, dropping the can back in his lap.

Kiyoomi gets moving, slightly relaxing.

“Thanks for that too, I guess,” Miya adds a little lower as they leave the parking lot.

Kiyoomi feels his heart swell. Annoying as hell.

“I’ve got ya,” he can’t help but mimic what his teammate said earlier, eyes focused on the road.

“Your impersonation sucks ass, Omi-kun,” he comments, relaxing in his seat.

“And if a single drop of that petroleum shit touches the leather of my seat, I’m throwing you out.”

“I’ll take the train.”

“While _moving_.”

“Hollywood feature worthy, then,” Miya grins.

And just like that, the bantering routine is back. Comfortable, quiet. Kiyoomi grins back, although he keeps his eyes on the road.

“If you’re into horror movies, I guess. I’ll sure run you over.”

“I’d love that, Omi,” Miya drops with a sly smirk, throwing his head back.

And for a second, Kiyoomi registers the fact that he’s flirting without seeing it as a threat, because it used to be harmless. It used to be just Miya being Miya, and Kiyoomi tuning it down. Burying it.

They both realize their _mistake_ at the same time. Kiyoomi realizes it: he just locked himself up in a car with Miya for a forty minutes ride and if they’re the adults he wants to convince himself they are… they have to _talk._ They obviously can’t pretend nothing happened, and it seems like neither want to. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to. Maybe Miya does, but whether it’s the case or not, he doesn’t seem to be able to remain unaffected. Maybe he regrets it, maybe not, probably not… It doesn’t mean he wants to do it again. 

Kiyoomi forces his way to get to the approaching highway a little too fast, almost running the last red light.

He waits for Miya to run his mouth, for him to say they don’t have to talk about it, or to compel him instead. Anything. Miya always ends up opening his mouth and even when he makes things more awkward, it always dissipates Kiyoomi’s discomfort to an extent.

It doesn’t come. And it’s only a minute, maybe just a little more, of silence, but it seems like an eternity during which Miya doesn’t open his stupid mouth.

His stupid mouth that dragged Kiyoomi through hell and back for weeks, that tortured him in all possible ways and it’s tightly shut when it matters the most.

It’s only when Kiyoomi reaches the limits of his patience and thinks about insulting him that he gets how unfair he is being. How Miya has been nothing but _trying_ today. 

Kiyoomi, on the other hand, has been antsy, fidgety, snapped at him, and can’t even keep it in his pants enough to align two coherent thoughts when he needs it the most. Worthy of the MVP title, really, he thinks with a pang of bitterness.

“I’m sorry. About everything.”

The words aren’t that hard to get out, looking sideway is way more difficult. Especially when Miya finally finds it in him to answer and his words hit just right.

“It’s fine. We’re fine, you and I, right? There’s nothing to be sorry for. Today was deemed to be real weird when it decided to start yesterday anyway so just… I guess what I’m trying to say is that you should HIT THE BRAKE! Jesus Christ Omi!”

Kiyoomi hits the brake hard, slamming his foot down as a surge of adrenaline rips through his body and the car comes to a grinding halt right behind another one. His teeth snap, Miya bounces forward, slamming his hand on the dashboard to catch himself and if that wasn’t chaotic enough, he’s bouncing back the next second, yelling as a splash of energy drink sprays his face and sweatshirt. 

“Oh my god! Are you okay? I’m sorry!” Kiyoomi immediately leans toward him, his heart racing in his chest.

Miya sits there, hands hanging in the air, one still holding the can, the other clenched on thin air as he blinks the filthy beverage away not quite successfully.

“Are you hurt?” Kiyoomi goes on, panic receding slightly as he takes in the curve of Miya's mouth, how it twitches slowly upward.

The relief that crashes over Kiyoomi is instant.

“Omi-kun! Damn, look what you’ve done! You have to throw yourself out the freaking car now,” he says, wiping his face with his free hand.

It’s pretty much useless and they both stare at the droplets falling from the tip of his finger and crashing on his duffle bag.

“Shit,” Miya breathes out. “What a mess.”

He exhales a shaky laugh.

“Yeah…” Kiyoomi mutters, not knowing what to do exactly. 

He doesn’t have to think too hard. 

The sound of a blaring horn has them both jolting in their seats. 

The reaction is instant, they both turn and lean through the gap between them to yell “Shut the fuck up!” as one man, bumping each other in the process.

They freeze there, eyes meeting instead of locking on the unfortunate bastard parked behind them.

Miya’s lips turn upside even more, a giant grin spreading there. A genuine one.

Kiyoomi feels like he’s dying. At least it’s what his heart sinking painfully in his chest feels like as he finds himself mesmerized by the contagious smile.

And soon Miya isn’t just smiling, he’s laughing and Kiyoomi isn’t sure how it’s that easy to join him, sinking back in his seat, chuckling way more quietly but as genuinely as his teammate.

He’s the first one to calm down, partly because although they’re stuck in traffic, the cars around start moving sluggishly again and Kiyoomi has to focus back on the road. Miya is too sleep deprived to just come down from it, wiping tears away from his cheeks along with some energy drink. 

He doesn’t have a choice when his phone rings a couple of minutes later, though. They’ve stopped in the middle of their lane again and Kiyoomi pulled some tissues out of his gloves compartment for Miya to wipe his face.

He looks sideways, a little more alert as Miya’s laugh definitely melts away and a frown takes place on his face. Kiyoomi doesn’t even have to read the caller ID to recognize the familiar face on screen. Although familiar is kind of a reach. The twins share many features but even if they did dye their hair the same color, Kiyoomi would never mistake one with the other.

“‘Samu? Everything okay? I’m on my w— _what_?”

With Miya talking over his brother, Kiyoomi couldn’t make out the words that prompt Miya to tense and choke on the word.

“What d’you mean he came all the way down from th—Of course he’s gonna worry, you absolute moron! You’re still in the—Dammit ‘Samu, why did they let you check out! I don’t give a fuck if Suna’s there or not! I’m stuck in traffic for your ass, didn’t even sleep last night and you tellin’ me you’re home snuggling with your boyfriend? I don’t care, shitface, that’s _gross,_ are you even in a stat—No I don’t want you at the restaurant! Don’t be a smart-ass! God, you’re un-fucking-believable! Hand the phone to Suna now!”

The car in front of them starts again, moving slowly. Kiyoomi mechanically follows, ear focused on the conversation unfolding next to him. He can’t really make out what’s happening on the other end of the line with Miya yelling louder and louder but he gets the most of it.

“You bastard Sunarin, you better watch out for him! Why are you there anyway? Messing around with your team? No, I don’t care if you miss practice or not, you’re getting your sorry ass handed over to ya next time anyway! I can’t believe him! You could’ve called? So what! I left half an hour ago, there was plenty time—yeah, get fucked! _No!_ Don’t you _fucking_ dare Sunarin, he’s not touching you tonight and you’re not touching ‘im! He needs to sleep! Ya hear me?”

“Loud and clear, ‘Tsumu,” Kiyoomi can hear Suna answer flatly.

He can’t help but smirk at that. The whole lane has probably heard too. He doesn’t hear the rest of Raijin’s middle blocker’s answer, only Miya:

“Yeah I’m freakin’ done. Done with both of you. Tell ‘Samu I’m onto him. I’ll be at his place tomorrow after practice and for the whole week-end. Yeah, it’s a threat, Sunarin. Don’t lay a finger on him, put him to bed _now_ and sleep on the goddamn couch, I don’t care.”

There’s more ruckus on the other end but Miya hangs up and throws his phone across the dashboard, crossing his arms over his chest as he crashes back into his seat with a terrible scowl.

“The fucker checked out and didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Miya groans as if that wasn’t clear enough.

“He was going to tell you,” Kiyoomi objects.

Miya glares at him. 

“Yeah, right, that’s what the fucker said yet who are the giant clowns stuck in traffic right now? You don’t wanna side with him, I’m telling you!”

Kiyoomi refrains from rolling his eyes, quirking an eyebrow instead.

“Are you sure he’s the one who needs to be put to bed right now?” 

Miya sinks a little more, throwing his face in his hands with a terrible groan.

“Ugh, I hate him,” he groans, the lament muffled through his fingers. “I know, I know, sorry! I’m just so exhausted and that dumbass is even more exhausting and now we’re stuck there, I’m drenched in that shit and you wasted your time driving me all the w—”

“I didn’t waste my time, Miya,” Kiyoomi interrupts the wild rant because it’s not as funny anymore and Miya really seems irritated.

It’s not that effective.

“‘f course you did! You didn’t have to, I know you feel obligated or somethin’ but really, I’m so fucking embarrassed, I’m gonna deck him I sw—”

“What did you say?”

The car stops again, the timing really convenient for Kiyoomi because he has to turn in his seat, shifting to take a good look at the other man. Miya isn’t moving, not answering either, face scrunched up in confusion. His hands are back in his lap.

Kiyoomi’s insides churn unpleasantly.

“What do you mean I feel obligated.”

Miya’s face turns red slowly but steadily as he averts his gaze and now Kiyoomi's insides feel like they’re being filled with lead.

“I mean—that’s not—obviously I don’t mean—” he stutters, clearly embarrassed.

That’s not cute. Kiyoomi feels his throat close up.

“Why do you think I offered to drive you there, Miya?” he presses on, ignoring how dry his throat feels.

“Omi-kun—”

“What are you _implying_ exactly?” Kiyoomi can’t let him breathe but there’s not much room for interpretation here.

“It’s just that after—”

“Are you implying I offered to drive you there because you sucked my dick and I feel like I owe you something now?” 

Miya’s eyes widen with each word that drips out Kiyoomi’s mouth. He didn’t expect his usual bluntness to come back now, but at least it doesn’t leave him time to feel embarrassed. Kiyoomi is too anxious for that anyway, or is it anger that’s building up?

“No! Oh my fucking god! Oh fuck, no, no, _no_!” Miya starts panicking, shifting in his seat so he can lean closer to the door, away from Kiyoomi. “Of course not! I didn’t mean it like that, I never meant to—d’you hear yourself?”

“Yes, I do, thank you. You’ll have to excuse me if I have a hard time getting your point, though.”

Another horn deafens them, forcing Kiyoomi to rip himself away from the stare down and face the road again. His jaw is clenched so tightly it’s starting to hurt but he ignores it and focuses on moving the car again.

He can sense Miya move next to him more than he sees him from the corner of his eye. Kiyoomi can hear another muffled drawn-out lamentation and right as he crosses the lanes to get to the next exit on the highway, Miya slams a hand on the dashboard. Not too loud, or violently but enough to make Kiyoomi turn toward him with a glare. 

“That’s _not_ what I meant!”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue, changing lanes one last time as they exit the main road. There aren’t as many cars heading out there and Kiyoomi has to remind himself not to speed up out of frustration.

Miya is definitely his own personal curse. As if there was any way to discipline himself when he just pushes every possible button to tick Kiyoomi off…

“I know I’m pissing you off!” Miya almost blows up, and that comes as a surprise, considering what’s on Kiyoomi’s mind at this exact moment.

“Bet you are,” he can’t help but snap under his breath.

“I know I am pissing you off right now, and I know I did before. I was… _look!_ Fuck, I really didn’t want to have that talk like that, can we please not do that here!” he eventually pleads.

He’s frantic, and Kiyoomi can’t tell how much comes from the sleep-deprivation and running on energy drinks and sugar and how much comes from Miya freaking out over it because he genuinely cares.

He hates that he knows Miya definitely cares.

“Yes, I fucking agree!” He snaps back, turning around the block.

He intends to go back through the residential area bordering the river. There’s almost no traffic, and Kiyoomi doesn’t want to feel overwhelmed more than he already is while driving. They just have to ride along a massive construction site first, which, on the other hand, clearly feels too silent. 

“No, you don’t get it! We need to do it now. Like, right now! Just not here! You have to pull over. We’re actually having this talk.”

“What?” Kiyoomi chokes on the word, eyes widening abruptly. “Now?” 

“Yes, _now._ Just pull over. Kiyoomi, _please_!” 

Kiyoomi looks around them, helpless. His heart sinks in his chest. There’s only a car behind them, no one ahead, the river on their right and the dark construction site spreading on their left. 

"I don’t think it’s…”

“We can stay in the car, just—”

“Alright, alright, calm down!” Kiyoomi commands, concern raising at Miya’s complete loss of common sense.

He knew Miya was dramatic, but now he seems genuinely freaking out and no matter how pissed off or frustrated he is, Kiyoomi never intended to upset him like this.

It takes a painfully long minute for him to park. He does so in front of one of the many entrances leading to the western part of the construction site, car facing the river. 

Kiyoomi's fingers aren't steady when he reaches for the key to cut the engine. He has no idea what he's supposed to say. 

And he ends up never finding out. 

Miya throws himself out of the car before Kiyoomi even turns it off and he's left alone with his fears for only company, engine still buzzing calmly. He’s not an idiot. Obviously Miya isn’t going to run for his life and abandon him, but it’s unsettling the way Kiyoomi freaks out despite any rational argument.

Is he becoming as dramatic as the fool he’s whipped for? Because that’s as ridiculous as it is unacceptable. And it’s going to be quite counterproductive too.

Thank god, Miya doesn’t go far. In fact, he ducks immediately to grab his duffle bag, that he tears open frantically. Kiyoomi slowly removes his belt, eyeing him without a word. 

Miya won’t look back, too focused on whatever he’s searching for, bottom lip stuck between his teeth. Kiyoomi focuses on _that_ instead. He wants to tell him not to freak out, that they should both calm the hell down, that it’s all stupid, that they’re really doing _fine._ He wants to tell him he’s going to hurt if he keeps biting on his lips like that…

And then all Kiyoomi wants is to kiss them, to sooth them, to sooth _him_ down. To sooth the crazy storm that is torturing his mind.

Instead he finds himself gaping when Miya pulls on his sweatshirt to get rid of it. 

Nothing goes through Kiyoomi’s brain at that, it goes entirely blank. And the time for him to recollect and actually let himself think about shameful things, Miya is grabbing one of his jerseys out of the bag to cover his chest. 

It’s their alternate one, the one that compliments the golden blur in his eyes. 

Kiyoomi is pretty much lost in that thought when Miya’s face reappears in the compartment and he drops the bag on the seat instead of taking its place.

“Fuck, I couldn’t stand that gross stuff anymore,” he explains. “Backseat, now.”

It’s not exactly an order, not a request either. Miya seems to be listing the next most logical thing to do and Kiyoomi blinks stupidly a couple of times.

“Backseat?”

“You wanna take an evening stroll on the river shore instead? I don’t care, I just want to be—I don’t know, it’ll be more comfortable, ok? Omi-kun, please, I swear I’m not gonna touch you.”

Kiyoomi’s stomach drops low. Miya still seems pretty nervous but he couldn’t be more clear. He won’t touch him. Kiyoomi wants to bang his head on the steering wheel, but only gives him a stern, cold stare instead before peeling himself off his seat.

“Backseat is fine.”

His voice isn’t any warmer than his gaze, but maybe this way he sounds more like he is in control. He isn’t, it’s stressing him out a lot.

At least, his teammate gives him a little time to collect his thoughts, rushing to the back of the car and slamming the door shut behind him. Kiyoomi stands there in the darkness for a moment. There aren’t street lights on this side of the road, and although it’s never entirely dark at night around the Kanzaki river, the construction site looks pretty gloomy.

 _Click click click…_

Half finished buildings' shadows are lurking everywhere, eating the trees around, the road, the barriers flanking the site, the car… 

"Omi-kun?" 

_Clack!_

"Hey…" Miya's voice sounds a little less desperate now. 

Kiyoomi didn't hear the door opening, lost in thoughts. His teeth clamp down on the puller of his zipper. 

He can feel more than he sees from the corner of his eyes that his teammate is extracting himself from the car. On his side, this time.

It's tentative, definitely not frantic anymore. 

_Click click click click…_

"Fresh air is great I guess, ye. Better even, alright. Alright? Yeah, alright..." his voice comes closer and the car barely dips back as Miya comes leaning against, pushing the door shut behind him. 

Miya's might not sound as frantic as before but his gibbering is speaking for him. 

“You’re gonna leave it on?” 

_Click click click click click…_

Kiyoomi finally shifts slightly to look at the other young man, shrugging in the process. He’s glad to know Miya can pay attention to details because, _no,_ Kiyoomi didn’t plan to forget to kill the engine but he’s a little out of it, right now.

“Want me to turn it off?”

_Click click click click click click click…_

“Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his throat. Miya’s cold fingertips are pressed against the side of his jaw. A featherlike touch that weighs so much on him nonetheless. The metallic bit falls from Kiyoomi’s lips as his eyes go wide.

Miya draws back at Mach speed, crossing his arms over his chest tightly.

“Sorry, I know I said no touchin’ but—”

"Though why, I really wonder! You can bend me over during practice when we're sweating and filthy but that's going too far," Kiyoomi suddenly snaps, tucking his hands in the front pockets of his jacket out of frustration. "Don't worry, Miya. I'm not gonna force you to repay me for the gas I wasted. Was just kindly whoring myself out!"

"The f—" 

There's a snorting noise and suddenly Miya isn't at his side anymore but right in his face. He's frowning, holding himself tight probably because the air outside is incredibly chilly. Kiyoomi's eyes trail down to his arms where goosebumps appear. He doesn't seem bothered by it, temper taking over anyway. Kiyoomi’s eyes roam back to his face, defiant.

"Look, asshole! First, you might wanna stop with your blunt rude mouth. And you're gonna stop putting words in _my_ fuckin' blunt rude mouth. You’re calling yourself a prostitute? Cause if that's the case, I'm going to touch you for real and it’ll be to punch you in your stupid face."

Kiyoomi's eyebrows rise almost comically. Not that he's really amused, but he has to admit that put like that it sounds pretty silly. Still… 

He pushes himself off the car, following an impulse he had no idea he had in him and suddenly Kiyoomi decides to make a point. 

Miya yelps as he grabs him by the shoulders to turn them around and push him against the car instead. 

The way Kiyoomi needs to put his hands on Miya is concerning. Really concerning. 

Warmth spreads across his face, making him a little bolder. 

Miya stares at the finger that stays pressed into his sternum with wide eyes, frozen against the car. 

"Sorry for the touching, _asshole_ , but humor me. Who started saying I was—" 

"I never said that, get your head outta your ass!" Miya shouts, flailing his arms at his sides. "Now if you want blunt, then here! No! _No_ I don't think you're making it up to me for blowing you! Want me to say it louder? There's no one there, I can fucking go again!" 

"Shut up, Miya!" Kiyoomi hisses, still looking around, heartbeat picking up unpleasantly. 

But it seems like there's no stopping Miya now, unsurprisingly in the end. Kiyoomi flinches at the next words nonetheless. 

"I thought I was acting like a freakin' idiot and that you were feeling obligated to put up with my shit because I've been acting pretty fuckin' pitiful since yesterday being all over you! That’s all I was implying! Thanks for making me say it aloud, you prick!" 

"Are you for r—" 

" _And_ ," Miya goes on, jabbing a finger in Kiyoomi's chest in retaliation. "I said no touching because I wanted to give you space after what I did. Damn, start working with me Omi-kun! Cause if we're two freaking idiots we're not gonna go anywhere!" 

Kiyoomi stares back in shock. 

Miya's lips are trembling, a constant tremor that must come both from the cold and the paradoxical heat that spills with each word.

Kiyoomi can't take his eyes off his lips. He can't. 

Miya is an idiot. Miya is _the_ idiot, clearly and Kiyoomi can't keep on like this. 

"Okay then!" he blows up, taking a step forward that narrows the space between them dangerously. "I'll explain it clear enough for a dumbass like you. I never said I didn't want you to touch me! And I recall telling you something yesterday before you left! For once I wasn't talking about your rabies shot, Miya! It was about STDs because that's what you test when you have sex with another grown man. Clear? Loud and clear? You think you're the only one who can embarrass the other in public? Fucking try me!"

Miya is crimson. Absolutely crimson. And Kiyoomi has no idea what he looks like himself but he's pretty sure, by the time he's done, that his porcelain complexion is nothing but a memory. 

He's not ashamed exactly, but he hates that Miya makes him lose all control like that. Kiyoomi was so sure he could tame that down. He was so confident in the fact that he could make it all go away, yet here he is, going off like a whimsical bomb. 

No, in fact he doesn't hate it, he's equally scared and thrilled and these are two powerful feelings Kiyoomi doesn't allow anyone to make him feel. 

"Fuck you, Miya, really," he croaks out, taking a step back to hopefully put some distance between him and the suffocating little bubble they're stuck in. 

But Miya _always_ ends up giving him what he needs, even when Kiyoomi is convinced otherwise. Even when he's sure Miya's only goal in life is to ruin _his,_ he should know better. 

A hand locks in the front of Kiyoomi's jacket. He's brought back in, almost tripping on his feet. Kiyoomi braces himself with a hand slamming on the car frame to avoid completely colliding with his teammate who's trying to set him on fire with a pair of angry and devastatingly beautiful golden eyes. 

"Hey, dickhead, you're not gonna complain if I take _that_ as an invitation, right?" 

And that's the thing. Kiyoomi's heart right about implodes when he realizes that even pissed off, even angry, even when they're bickering like their lives depend on it… Miya finds a way to make sure he's okay. To make sure he heard Kiyoomi right. To be caring.

Kiyoomi can't breathe. He still manages to answer.

"I'm gonna complain anyway because I'm stuck with a pain in the— _umph!_ " 

Kiyoomi's eyes roll at the back of his head as Miya's lips press against his mouth aggressively. 

His fist closes over the metal, his other hand flying to grip Miya's jersey as he drowns in the most demanding kiss he's ever been given. 

Miya keeps him close, arms circling the small of his back and his shoulders to hold him closer even. 

If Kiyoomi could still breathe, the little air left in his lungs would be knocked out when Miya reverses their positions, pushing Kiyoomi back against the car while he fumbles around his waist. 

He doesn't pay attention to it until he's pulled off the car again and the door leading to the backseat is yanked open. 

They have to break the kiss and Kiyoomi finds himself chasing Miya's lips even before they completely slip out of reach. 

They're both standing there, panting wildly while they stare at the other without a word at first. 

"That's not the conversation we're supposed to have, is it?" Kiyoomi suddenly blurts out, heart drumming dangerously in his chest. 

"Hell no," Miya breathes out, bringing a hand to his lips to touch them.

Kiyoomi feels heat spreading along his legs and stomach. 

"But I'm not mad," Miya adds, looking away. "You?" 

His hand drops and he traces his bottom lip with his tongue instead. Kiyoomi's throat dries a little at the sight. He might _die_ a little at the sight. 

Kiyoomi is doomed. He'll never be able to come back from this hell. And sometimes it's best to concede defeat. 

"I'm always mad when it's about you. You drive me pretty mad all the time. You're a fucking menace, Miya."

The words are out before he knows it. 

The air seems to catch on fire between them. 

Kiyoomi doesn't know how they get in the car, all he knows is that Miya is pushing him and that he's pulling him in all the same until they crash awkwardly across the backseat, door shutting behind them loudly. 

It's cramped, stupid and a mess but Kiyoomi doesn't care. Instead he's clinging to the man slotted between his bent legs, hands tugging on bleached locks, clawing at the back of his jersey… 

"We still need to talk," Miya whispers at some point, teeth locking on Kiyoomi's jaw. 

"I know," Kiyoomi moans, throwing his head back. 

The back of his skull knocks the door, and for a fleeting second he wonders what the hell is he doing. What happened to self restraint and discipline. 

And then Miya kisses the side of his neck, the pressure overwhelming and so hot that Kiyoomi's mind goes blank. 

Maybe he doesn't need restraint if Miya is there to make him talk when it's needed and give him what he craves for when they both want it. 

Miya wants it to. Kiyoomi can feel it, everywhere against him, over him, around him. 

Miya is growing hard in his pants, and the pressure becomes almost painful for both when he bucks his hips down to meet Kiyoomi's.

Each bite, each kiss, each time his tongue toys with Kiyoomi's skin, it toys a little more with his sanity. 

Kiyoomi needs to get some control on the situation. He needs to feel Miya. 

Kiyoomi wants too many things. 

Flipping them over is a complicated process between Miya who seems to be on a crusade to claim with his mouth any square centimeter of Kiyoomi's body that's at disposal and the fact that they're two giant athletes stuck in the back of a tiny car. Kiyoomi still ends up pressing Miya down. 

He needs many things but he can't recall needing anything as bad as he needs Miya Atsumu. 

It's probably the least comfortable position he's ever been in to make out with anyone — mostly because up until two minutes ago it was perfectly logical for Kiyoomi to think he'd rather die than do that at the back of his car, as clean as he keeps it — yet he's all over Miya. 

It would be unfair to be the only one not being able to breathe, though. 

He kisses his way up Miya's throat, brings a hand between them to cup his jaw and then… 

“Shit. You’re—”

“Sticky, I know. I'm sorry! Couldn't get rid of all that shit," Miya groans. 

Kiyoomi props himself on his forearm, hovering above him for a moment. 

Miya looks like a mess, even in the dark Kiyoomi can see how swollen and glistening his lips are. 

Damn, he wants to ravish him. Even if he reeks more of a nasty chemical energy drink than anything. That's how far gone Kiyoomi is. 

"It's fine," he utters, voice hoarse. "I already knew you were gross anyway."

"Fuck _you,_ " Miya's eyes narrow but a grin is spreading on his dumb proud face and Kiyoomi has to count to ten before answering because of how stupid the sight makes _him._

It's not even been an hour, but he missed that smile so much it's ridiculous. Realizing that is terrible… yet he knows he's grinning too when he snaps back:

"Well, I _would_ take it as an invitation but I think we came unprepared."

"I fuckin' _hate_ you, Omi-kun," he says but his hand cups Kiyoomi's jaw and gently moves higher to push back a few curls that are falling in his eyes. 

Kiyoomi's heart clenches. 

That's dangerous. They haven't talked. They really haven't sorted anything out. And Miya has the guts to act so gently that Kiyoomi's sanity is at stake. 

He can still ruin it, he has to. Self restraint is something when it comes to physical impulses… Kiyoomi isn't so sure he can do anything if he allows himself to feel more than that without knowing where they stand. 

"Sure. Tell me how that's gonna help us find some lube and condoms," he asks, opting for the shameless route to try and throw the other off. 

He must be stupid, but Kiyoomi can't entirely lose it. He just can't. He's not ready. 

Miya's hand disappears for a moment and instead of a caring gesture, he follows Kiyoomi down the shameless route. 

His fingers hook into the belt around his waist, right next to Kiyoomi's fly. 

"You're the one who's super gross, my god, you're supposed to be the one bringin' delicacy!" 

They both know that it's not true. That that's nothing more than a sweet fantasy coming from magazines and fans who interpret Kiyoomi's quietness the way that suits their ideal picture of the dark prince they want him to be best. 

Kiyoomi is rude and blunt, he just knows how and when to run his mouth and the fact that he can be as distinguished as can be in front of journalists might fool everyone, but he never fooled Miya. 

Miya just _knows._

_And Kiyoomi loves that._

"Sorry to disappoint," he deadpans, but his voice dares tremble.

He still pushes his hips back to accommodate Miya as he tears blindly at his belt and fly. It's outrageous how skillful he is with his fingers because in seconds, he finds his way in and Kiyoomi's mouth is torn by a moan. 

Miya is wearing sweatpants, so it shouldn't be much trouble to pull them down but Kiyoomi has some difficulty thinking about anything when Miya is palming him through his boxers like that. 

"I'm _not_ disappointed," he suddenly exhales in awe. "Ever."

Kiyoomi's body is wrecked by a heavy shudder. 

"Actually I'm the luckiest bastard on the—" 

This time Kiyoomi is the one cutting him off with a kiss because he simply can't hear that. He can't. And finally being able to kiss Miya again can easily become the only thing that matters in Kiyoomi’s world right now.

He's glad the kiss turns frantic, because his fingers are shaking when he pulls his teammate’s pants down. They barely slide mid-thigh with his legs bent and Kiyoomi refusing to pull away but it doesn’t stop either of them from chasing contact.

And when they find it, when Kiyoomi presses down and their clothed erections brush through the thin barrier of their underwear, when Miya bites his bottom lip from the surprise and moans into his mouth… it doesn’t matter if they’re rutting at the back of a car like two horny teenagers.

They have all the time in the world to talk like grown-ups, don’t they? Kiyoomi can indulge just a little—

“Omi-kun,” Miya sounds breathless when he pulls back from the kiss.

Kiyoomi looks down and it leaves him just as breathless. Miya is handsome. Always has been. But there’s something about him looking completely disheveled, flustered by _his_ touch, eyes hungry for _him._

“Help me out?” Miya pleads, gripping the front of Kiyoomi’s jacket with one hand and his own jersey with the other.

His lips are slightly parted, his pupils blown wide. Something shifts in Kiyoomi’s mind. He wants to _own_ this man. How was he ever supposed to fight that?

Miya keens under him when his teeh sink over his pulse point, and he grips the back of his jacket when Kiyoomi sucks a mark there. 

“What are you _doing_?” Miya chokes.

He sounds in awe, maybe a little smug. Kiyoomi wishes he could answer, but he has no idea.

Instead his hands run up Miya’s arms, ready to get him out of the offensive piece of garment that’s in the way… but then his thumb brushes over something in the crook of Miya’s right elbow.

A frown appears on his face as Kiyoomi stills over his teammate. 

Miya has been wearing a long-sleeved compression shirt all day long under his other jersey, then a sweat-shirt and…

“What—”

Kiyoomi can feel him stiffening under him, his arm twitching in his grasp as his thumb goes over the rough texture. It’s a band-aid. 

“It’s—um… That’s—” Miya starts, turning his head to the side, clearing his throat.

“Did you…?”

Kiyoomi’s mouth dries as the wildest thoughts rush in. It has to be from a blood test. It has to. He spent a fair amount of time frying his brain over having to give Miya some space. Over not showing how desperate he wants it. 

How desperate he wants him. How hard Kiyoomi is crushing on—

Miya slowly nods, his hair brushing against Kiyoomi’s nose. 

“ _When_.”

Miya swallows thickly, throat still pressed against Kiyoomi’s lips. Kiyoomi can’t even think anymore.

“I—Last night, when… I mean I had to wait hours and well… _Kiyoomi_!” Miya’s moan is lost against Kiyoomi’s mouth when he claims him again.

Chaos ensues but it’s nothing that doesn’t suit them. Kiyoomi ends up sitting with Miya straddling his thighs, his lips stinging pleasantly. They’re so eager and sloppy he has no doubt he’ll die of shame a little every time he thinks about it too hard, looking back, but it’s the best loss of control he’s ever experienced.

The most thrilling one.

It’s so good his heart might burst, and he doesn’t even care.

“Can I?” Miya whispers, lips moving against his skin, fingers playing with the hem of Kiyoomi’s boxers.

“Please,” Kiyoomi nods, bucking his hips.

His hands locked on Miya’s hips jolt, his eyes fluttering close as he sinks in the backseat. It has been something like twenty-four hours and Kiyoomi has missed this touch so much already, it’s insane.

Miya tilts Kiyoomi’s head back, sliding upward along his thighs, his hand curling around Kiyoomi’s cock as his tongue invades his mouth again. Much like yesterday, the onslaught of sensations is a threat to his sanity.

But he’s sure it’s real this time. Miya wants it just as much, there’s not making the same mistake twice, is there? 

And if Miya wants him, maybe Kiyoomi should show him just how much he can reciprocate. Because he has no idea what Miya wants from him but Kiyoomi doesn’t want a repeat from yesterday. He was feeling ashamed enough when he stormed out, guilty enough…

Kiyoomi’s right hand curls in the blond hair, yanking back Miya’s head so he can gain access to his throat again. The mark he left before has bloomed into a dark little bruise since then. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, entranced by the sight.

“Kiyoomi…” 

His voice sounds as sinful as what comes next. Miya grabs Kiyoomi’s other hand and brings it to his mouth. Kiyoomi’s body is wrecked by a nasty shiver. The tip of two of his fingers are pressed against Miya's lips, his tongue poking out to toy with them.

“Fuck, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi curses again without thinking, prying his lips open.

Miya moans quietly, mouth filled with his fingers. Kiyoomi feels feverish. If he could think at all, he’d remember the many times he heard someone joking about how the setter’s stupidly loud mouth won’t lead him anywhere.

Well, joke’s on him. He’s obsessed and completely weak for it. Sure led _him_ here.

It would be pretty frustrating any time but now, though, because Miya is greedily sucking on his fingers and making all sorts of throaty noises while lazily jerking him off and Kiyoomi doesn’t even have it in him anymore to fight against how ecstatic he feels.

The shameless tongue he’s seen play with stupid lollipops so many times curls around his digits again, dragging along them, teeth brushing — Kiyoomi snaps.

He almost rips his fingers off and bends Miya backward, flipping them so they’re lying on the backseat again. Miya is so hard it’s a wonder how he’s been this patient until now. Kiyoomi bites back the guilty feeling by bending his wrist entirely to sneak a hand in his boxers. 

There’s a dull but noticeable thud sound following and they both freeze.

Miya is wincing after he clearly hit his head against the door, and Kiyoomi’s hand goes limp over him. 

“Are you okay?” he immediately asks.

“Yeah, ‘f course! Yeah, don’t stop!” his teammate practically whines, dragging him down against him again. “Please, I’m _okay_!”

That desperation has Kiyoomi chuckling a little, even if it comes out hoarse and shaky.

“Shaddup!” Miya groans miserably. 

“Make me,” Kiyoomi offers, lips twitching with an insufferable smirk.

And just like that, Kiyoomi learns it was silly to think he had the upper hand. He’s lucky enough not to bump his head anywhere but still gets dizzy from being manhandled. Miya is perched over him in seconds, looking as smug as ever, tongue stuck between his teeth. Kiyoomi glares, although there’s no way it’s that effective with the blush on his face and him being rock hard down there. He still tries to own it as Miya lords over him, bending until his breath mingles with Kiyoomi’s.

“I _made_ ya just fine yesterday. Want another demonstration?”

His hand trails back to Kiyoomi’s dick while he talks big, seizing him again and giving him long, slow strokes.

“I hate you,” Kiyoomi enunciates slowly enough not to stutter from the ministrations.

“Sure do,” Miya hums, his fingers squeezing him just enough for the pressure to make Kiyoomi squirm. “Who would’ve thought you’re the one who needs to be shut—”

Kiyoomi almost head-butts him when their lips crash together. His nails scratch the small of Miya's back when he pulls his boxers down and pulls him down.

Kiyoomi barely has the time to slide a hand between them to reciprocate before they get desperately close. There’s barely room to move anymore, and they’re a complete mess, humping against each other. It still sets every nerve in Kiyoomi’s body ablaze. 

Miya breaks the kiss three times to avoid just panting into his mouth, and Kiyoomi brings him back as many times, unbothered. Every time, he makes that little surprised but pleased sound and every time Kiyoomi feels like all this isn’t enough and too much at the same time.

The tension builds up almost too fast, considering how uncomfortable it is, how unprepared they are, but then again, they’ve obviously been desperate for it for too long for it to last.

Miya isn’t just godlike with his mouth, he’s good with his hands too, and now Kiyoomi wants to know if he’s just as good no matter what they’d do. 

He’s the first one to trip over the edge, both from the action and from getting lost in his stupid fantasies. 

And Kiyoomi is still trying to focus on staying there for Miya, to get him off too, when he hears something whispered against his earshell: “You’re so freakin’ beautiful, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi’s vision turns black as he comes, his hips stuttering under Miya’s, his hands unconsciously tightening… one in his partner’s jersey, the other around his cock.

“Shit, Kiyoomi, I—”

Kiyoomi barely hears him curse, but he does feel Miya crumbling on top of him. He’s coming back from his own high while Miya still shivers against him, panting through his release and Kiyoomi doesn’t think before using his free arm to keep him pressed against him.

Miya is trembling, but still snuggles into his chest and Kiyoomi feels like his heart might give up right about now. He nuzzles the blond hair right under his nose, feeling a little self-conscious when a fist closes over said heart, curling in his jacket. Miya probably can feel it race under his fingers. 

The aftermath is even messier and more uncomfortable, filthier too, and yet, the Kiyoomi refuses to move a muscle. He shouldn’t be afraid, this time. He still wonders if everything will be over the moment they part again.

It can’t be, but Kiyoomi holds Miya closer anyway.

A light sound breathing escapes his mouth, the unmistakable telltale sound of sleepiness. Kiyoomi’s chest swells. 

“C’mon. Move, Miya. I need to drive us back to the dorms,” he mumbles against Miya’s sweaty hairline.

“Mmh. Without ulterior motive this time too?” Miya mumbles back, clearly fighting not to doze off.

“Thank you for ruining everything, really.”

“‘m jokin’ Omi,” Miya whines, pressing his face into his chest.

“I know. I meant it. Would hate it if it was any different,” Kiyoomi confesses begrudgingly.

“Would you, now?” 

Miya moves again, this time to prop his chin on top of his chest, and when Kiyoomi looks down, there’s a stupid blissful smile on Miya’s stupid sleepy face and Kiyoomi almost blurts out words he didn’t even know he had in him.

He swallows them back, rolls his eyes to make a point and pushes his teammate back. Miya struggles to prop himself back, they both stare at the mess between them and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes even harder.

“There’s still the pack of tissues there,” Miya offers before a yawn rips his mouth open.

“I’d rather use a flamethrower,” Kiyoomi deadpans.

“For your jacket? How dramatic Omi—”

“For the whole car. Come on, Miya. Get in the front seat.”

They both end up there without speaking much more. They’re exhausted, and to Miya it’s even more of an understatement, but Kiyoomi notices anyway: they’re both _smiling._

Atsumu still is, when he finally dozes off with his face pressed against the window as Kiyoomi speeds up on the way back. And he does again when Kiyoomi gently shakes him awake to help him up the stairs of their condo. 

He is grinning when Kiyoomi leaves him at his door and threatens his life if he doesn’t take a shower before crashing in his bed. And he is again, when he holds him back by the sleeve before Kiyoomi gets away.

“Hey, Omi-omi. What’s your thoughts on havin’ breakfast with me tomorrow?”

Kiyoomi stops in his tracks, stares at the weak hold of Atsumu’s fingers on the hem of his sleeve, then at the golden eyes that are shining with tiredness and maybe something else.

His stomach does a little backflip.

“I’d say it’s lucky I didn’t fuck you stupid all the way, because we still have half a marathon to run at eight, dumbass.”

“Right, right! I meant after. After practice,” he says, struggling not to yawn again and leaning against his door frame heavily.

“That would be two in the afternoon.”

Atsumu shrugs.

“Works for me.”

He’s still smiling, but obviously fighting to keep his eyes open. Kiyoomi’s fingers twitch at his sides. He wants to reach out and help Atsumu get to bed. Instead he tucks his hands in his pockets, making Atsumu lose his grip and then his footing. He’s faltering in front of Kiyoomi when the latter mumbles a low: “Works for me too.”

“Great,” Atsumu hums, falling back against his door, fumbling for the door handle behind his back. “See you, then.”

Kiyoomi can’t refrain. He can’t help it. He finds an excuse, and steps forward, crowding him against the door.

“Oi. Don’t fall asleep in the shower,” he groans, finding the handle for him and pushing it open. “Good night.”

“Good—”

Atsumu’s mouth hangs open, as Kiyoomi backs the hell off at the speed of light.

He doesn’t know what spurred him on to kiss the corner of his stupid mouth. Why he didn’t kiss him entirely, why did he kiss Atsumu at all… he just did.

“Yeah, ‘night Omi,” his dreamy voice follows him down the corridor.

And Kiyoomi doesn’t regret it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> So, do I write a part 3? I feel like they deserve to end up together... properly I mean.
> 
>  **EDIT:** PART 3 IS THERE, [Hungry for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542954). 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this! I got so deep in this I can't seem to claw my way out so thank you for joining ♥ From the bottom of my heart! Don't hesitate to let me know what you thought, I love screaming with people about them ;;
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Deaddrabble)  
> Find me on [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/DeaddrabbleRobin)


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